


lay his heart down (with the rest, at her feet)

by ExultedShores



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Heart-to-Heart, M/M, Sokolov can see the Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23894176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExultedShores/pseuds/ExultedShores
Summary: “She tells me secrets, and shows me the right path,” Corvo says, his tone fond. “Others can’t see or hear her – except for you, apparently. I don’t know why that is.”Anton snorts. “All those years trying to breach the Void’s mysteries must’ve caught up with me,” he speculates. “Or perhaps this is merely the Outsider’s twisted idea of amusement.”Corvo wouldn’t put it past the Outsider, if he’s honest. But he has a different theory. “Or maybe Jessamine wanted to have a chance to speak with you, one last time.”
Relationships: Jessamine Kaldwin & Anton Sokolov, Piero Joplin/Anton Sokolov, The Heart & Anton Sokolov
Comments: 23
Kudos: 66





	lay his heart down (with the rest, at her feet)

**Author's Note:**

> You can blame this absolute monstrosity on my friend Sam, who planted the seed "what if Sokolov could see the Heart" in my brain and it sprouted into this ridiculously massive fic. There's not enough fic out there about Sokolov's friendship with Jessamine, so have my humble offering. With added Piero/Sokolov because I can.

Corvo doesn’t like keeping Anton Sokolov in a cage.

He’s glad he got him away from his house on Kaldwin’s Bridge, if not because it leaves Burrows without his Royal Physician, then because it will give those poor people Anton had been experimenting on some respite. Corvo isn’t an unreasonable man, knows that testing formulae for possible plague cures is the only way to know for whether or not they’ll work, but keeping those people in cages like animals did not agree with him.

And neither does doing this same thing to Anton. Seeing others behind bars reminds him altogether far too much of his own stint in Coldridge.

But Havelock is adamant not to ‘let the mad genius run amok’, and Corvo has to defer to his judgement as long as he’s here. Without the Loyalists, Corvo would have been executed weeks ago, and they’ve been sheltering him at great risk to themselves. He can’t very well tell the Admiral how to run his operation.

Anton, at least, understands that. “You’re part of this rabble, but I know you have your reasons.”

“Yes, he does,” Havelock cuts in, his calm tone clashing horribly with his tense posture. “All we need is the name of the Lord Regent’s mistress. It’s very simple.”

“I _elect_ not to tell you,” Anton snorts. “You will have to force the words from me, and I warn you, my willpower is quite legendary.”

Havelock raises an eyebrow at Corvo, one hand already on the container of rats, but Corvo shakes his head, adamantly. He doesn’t want to torture Anton, not unless he absolutely has to. A bribe might do the trick – he’s seen Anton take plenty of those, during their long acquaintance – but it’s not as though he has many options for that out here in a quarantined section of the ruined city. What could he offer Anton that would make him want to betray the Lord Regent’s trust?

As he so often does these days, he reaches into his pocket, fingers brushing against the leathery texture of the greatest and worst gift he’s ever received. The last piece of his Empress, the star of his sky, sitting warmly in his palm, her voice both a comfort and a constant reminder of all he has lost. She guides him, just as she did in life, and Corvo takes the Heart out of his pocket, pointing it at Anton.

People can’t perceive the Heart. That’s how it works – that’s how it’s always worked. Not even Emily can see the vessel, hear her mother’s voice. But this time, it’s not that simple. This time, she is not invisible.

“What in the Void…!” Anton exclaims, stepping back from the bars, his eyes firmly locked on the disembodied organ in Corvo’s hand.

Corvo’s fingers reflexively tighten around the Heart – and that was a mistake.

“He is Anton Sokolov,” Jessamine’s voice rises from her unorthodox prison. “Natural philosopher, inventor, painter… and friend.”

The silence that falls after she stops speaking is deafening.

Worse is what happens when the silence _breaks_.

“What have you done?” Anton whispers, his hands curling around the bars of his cage so tightly his knuckles turn stark-white. “You sick bastard, what have you _done_ to her?!”

Now Corvo is the one to jump back, Anton’s hostile tone reminding him altogether far too much of the way the guards in Coldridge used to speak to him – except he’s on the other side of the bars, now, and he has nothing to fear, not truly, not from Anton. But the look in Anton’s eyes, one of fury and disgust and _grief_ , has his heart hammering in his throat.

It also has the Heart hammering in his hand. Jessamine speaks again, her tone more sorrowful than he’s ever heard it before. “He cared for the Empress more than he will ever tell. She trusted him more than any other – except, perhaps, for you.”

“She trusted you,” Anton repeats, his voice breaking. “She _trusted_ you, and this is how you repay her?”

Corvo shakes his head. He can’t find the words, he’s had trouble finding his words since Coldridge, where he was derided for every word he spoke until he just stopped speaking altogether. What is he supposed to say to Anton, how is he supposed to _explain_ this? The Outsider assured him no one would be able to perceive the Heart but Corvo himself!

He’s spared from having to figure out an explanation on the spot when Havelock speaks up. “We’re not here to discuss what Corvo has done, Royal Physician,” the former Admiral says, stepping up besides the crate containing a horde of rats he secured for the interrogation. “We’re much more interested in what _you_ have done. Specifically the portrait you painted of the Lord Regent’s mistress.”

“I don’t bloody well know!” Anton bellows, snapping his head around to regard Havelock. “You know damn well how paranoid Burrows is, I wasn’t permitted to see her face or learn her full name. You want one of the ladies Boyle, alright? I fail to see the importance of this in light of _that_!”

He gestures furiously at Corvo – at the Heart in his hands, specifically – and Havelock raises an eyebrow. “Did you not just say you know he has his reasons?”

“For working with the likes of _you_ ,” Anton spits, “not for that – that – _her_!”

“Her?” Havelock questions. “If you mean this Lady Boyle, there’s no reason to –”

“Admiral,” Corvo cuts him off, “please give us a moment.”

“I don’t think that’s wise, Corvo.”

“He already told us what we need to know,” Corvo argues. “Please, Admiral.”

Havelock looks anything but pleased, but he nods. “Very well. Don’t let him manipulate you.”

He leaves without further argument, thankfully, and Corvo takes a deep breath before turning back to Anton. “Anton, I –”

“Don’t ‘Anton’ me, Corvo,” Anton snarls. There’s a viciousness to him Corvo has rarely seen before, let alone directed at him, and he takes a step backwards despite of himself. “What have you done to her? _Why_ would you – I didn’t believe you could have killed her, not _you_. Was I really that wrong?”

“No!” Corvo denies fervently, shaking his head. “I didn’t kill her, Anton, and I didn’t want _this_ for her either.”

He gesticulates with the Heart – but gently, carefully. Whether he wanted this or not, this is still Jessamine, the last part of her that lingers in this world, and Corvo will always cherish his Empress.

Anton looks him in the eye, his gaze assessing. “Who did it, then?” he demands. “If not you, who would trap her spirit where it no longer belongs?”

Corvo strokes his thumb along the stitches in the Heart, where Daud’s blade pierced it with razor-sharp precision. “The Outsider gave her to me,” he decides to be honest. Anton knows how the Void works better than anyone else he knows. “He said it was a… gift.”

Anton rests his forehead against the bars of his cage, closing his eyes. “A former student of mine used to call him the black-eyed bastard,” he murmurs. “I suppose I understand why, now.”

Corvo huffs a laugh, quick and quiet and mirthless. “I would never have gotten this far without his help, though,” he has to admit, holding up his left hand. “Without this – and without _her_ – I would likely have been caught before even reaching Holger Square.”

“Remarkable,” Anton breathes despite himself, eyes locked on Corvo’s Mark – and then, like a magnet, getting drawn back to the Heart resting in Corvo’s other hand. “I’ve met others with that Mark, but never anyone carrying around a… _gift_ like that. I still fail to understand _why_ she was trapped. What purpose does it serve?”

“She tells me secrets, and shows me the right path,” Corvo says, his tone fond. “Others can’t see or hear her – except for you, apparently. I don’t know why that is.”

Anton snorts. “All those years trying to breach the Void’s mysteries must’ve caught up with me,” he speculates. “Or perhaps this is merely the Outsider’s twisted idea of amusement.”

Corvo wouldn’t put it past the Outsider, if he’s honest. But he has a different theory. “Or maybe Jessamine wanted to have a chance to speak with you, one last time.”

They say Anton Sokolov can never be found without a drink in his hand and a scathing remark on the tip of his tongue, and over the years, Corvo has found that to be true. To see him without either one is more unsettling than Corvo would have thought.

“I never imagined we would lose her so young,” Anton says eventually. “Rulers come and go, but Jessamine, she was…”

“Extraordinary,” Corvo finishes for him, swallowing back tears.

Anton nods against the bars, clearly not trusting himself to speak either, and Corvo cannot quell the rush of affection he feels for the old philosopher in that moment. There are few people who knew Jessamine – truly knew _her_ , knew the woman she was in private rather than the Empress she had to be in public – and it’s oddly comforting, to be in the presence of someone who loved her as much as Corvo did. _Does_.

They were always close, Jessamine and Anton. He taught her, of course, tutored her in the basics of natural philosophy an empress is supposed to know. But Corvo knows they came together for tea on a weekly basis even after she was crowned, long after her lessons had ended. Corvo spent that time just outside the door of the sitting room, fulfilling his duty as Royal Protector – and he heard her laughter through that door too often to count.

They made an odd pair, but they were friends, and Corvo wouldn’t be surprised if Anton’s ability to see the Heart really does spark from Jessamine’s desire to speak with him again.

The Heart beats calmly in his hand, and taking it as confirmation, Corvo holds it out through the bars of Anton’s cage, opens his palm in a clear offering. Anton stares at it for a spell, his own hand hovering uncertainly over the organ before his features harden and he takes the Heart from Corvo, holding it almost reverently in both of his hands.

“I’ll give you some time,” Corvo says, stepping away from the bars. “I’ll need her back before I head into the city again, but…”

“Tonight,” Anton says unexpectedly. “There’s a masked ball at the Boyle Estate tonight. If you want to do away with the Lord Regent’s funding, that’s the best opportunity you’ll have.”

Corvo nods. “Thank you, Anton.”

He leaves the kennels, stepping outside without Jessamine’s Heart for the first time since he received it. The Admiral should be glad he managed to get the information about the Boyles’ party, at least. Perhaps enough to leave Anton be for now. Corvo hopes so.

Anton and Jessamine both deserve closure.

* * *

He’s held hearts in his hands before.

Literally _and_ figuratively, or so he likes to believe, at least. He’s dissected too many corpses to count, held and weighed their hearts before discarding them, likely to be processed and used to make food for wolfhounds. And he’s had his share of affairs, some clandestine, most a lot less so, and if he’s ever held any of his bedfellows’ hearts, he’s long since discarded them, too.

Anton Sokolov has held hearts before. But never one like this.

It sits oddly warm in his palm, its pulse matching that of his own heart, hammering painfully hard in his chest. It’s been torn apart and put together again, stitches and gears and glass merged flawlessly with the muscle. It beats through a combination of magic and natural philosophy, blurring the line between the normal and the extraordinary. Had this Heart belonged to anyone else, Anton would have been fascinated by the construct.

But it did not belong to anyone but Jessamine Kaldwin herself, and not even his ever-inquisitive mind can think of it as a _thing_. It’s a part of her – the last part of her, the rest of her body having been laid to rest in the Kaldwins’ mausoleum. Anton was there for the ceremony. He was a poor substitute for her lover and her daughter, but he was there nonetheless.

“You chose orchids for her funeral,” the Heart speaks, in that voice that is hers yet not. “The Empress would have loved them.”

Anton makes a noise in the back of his throat. It might’ve been a wail, if he’d allowed it to move past his lips. “You’ve always loved orchids,” he whispers instead. “Odd flowers, but beautiful. Much like the Empress herself.”

If she was still whole, if they were sitting in their favourite armchairs by the fireplace of her chambes, she would have laughed. She would have laughed and waved away his flattery, turned the conversation towards his latest conquest instead.

“There have been many women in your life, and even a few men,” the Heart says, as though she can read his very thoughts. Anton wouldn’t be surprised if she could. “But there were none like… _her_.”

It’s true. On the surface, Jessamine wasn’t unlike the women Anton liked to bed. She was young and beautiful, and she could hold her liquor like no other Gristolian aristocrat could. But she was also _fierce_ , clever and witty and headstrong, and she could match him blow for blow in scathing remarks and shrewd observations. And somewhere along the way, she became the closest friend he’s had in a long, long time.

And now she’s _gone_.

“She could not have lived,” the Heart says. There is a hint of frustration in her tone, and Anton knows, instinctively, that Jessamine would have been _furious_ , if she’d been whole. “She died when she was… meant to.”

“The Outsider’s will, was it?” Anton snorts, the sound utterly disdainful. He feels the rage – _her_ rage – well up in his chest. “Was it his will to make you into _this_ , too?”

“The Outsider has no will,” she says, her voice back to the dull monotone now that she’s no longer discussing the woman she used to be. “He chooses only to whom he appears, and to whom he bestows his Mark. But he has never been more than a puppet to the Void itself.”

Well, that’s… interesting, he supposes. The natural philosopher inside of him is fascinated, to be sure, and he’d be lying if he said his pride is completely intact, knowing that the Outsider has chosen so deliberately never to appear to Anton himself, despite his many, many attempts to seek contact. But the predominant thought in his mind is, oddly, _disappointment_. Because he could be angry with the man who had her murdered. He could even be angry with the deity who let it happen. But he cannot be angry with the Void itself, and he _hates_ that. He _needs_ something to be angry with, because Jessamine is _dead_ , and that is an injustice if he’s ever witnessed one. To hear that she was supposed to die all along, that she could never have survived… It takes away the anger and replaces it with despondency, and he just _can’t_ –

“Anger will not serve you,” the Heart laments – and that’s something Jessamine could have said herself. “Grieve her. Remember her. Love her. But do not feel anger on her behalf. The Empress, she… _I_ do not want that for you.”

That is what breaks him. The fact that this last part of her is still looking out for _him_ , even when _she_ is the one who’s been dealt the worst possible hand, that is what breaks him.

“You were always the best of us, Jessamine,” he breathes, the tears rolling silently into his beard. “I don’t know what the Empire will do without you.”

 _I don’t know what_ I _will do without you_ , he doesn’t say, but then he doesn’t have to. She knows.

“The Empire will endure,” the Heart says, “as will you, Anton. You are stronger than most give you credit for. And you have much left to do.”

“So did you.”

“So did I,” she sighs. “But there are others, who are capable of ruling. There are none with your mind, your ability for creation and innovation. The world owes you much, and it will owe you more still.”

“A shame I can’t cash in those debts,” Anton mutters. “I would have given everything I have to save you.”

“I know,” the Heart says, in a voice so soft he can almost pretend she’s still whole. “No one could have saved her. Me. No one could have saved… _me_. But there are others who can be saved, Anton. Thousands of lives resting in the palm of your hand – if you are willing to extend that hand to another.”

Anton would gladly trade those thousands of lives for hers, because he has always been a selfish man at heart. But he also knows Jessamine would never have wanted anyone to trade their life for hers, so he holds his tongue. “Whose hand would you have me take?”

“The hand of the man who constructed my vessel.”

Anton’s hands tighten around the Heart, running a calloused thumb over the glass plate that covers the hole a blade carved there. “Joplin,” he says, almost immediately. The alignment of the gears, the pattern of the stitches, make it crystal clear just who put the Heart back together again. He can’t believe he didn’t see it before. “You want me to work together with Joplin.”

For once, there’s no cryptic answer. The Heart pulsates strongly in his palms, and says only a single word. “Yes.”

Were he capable of it, Anton would have laughed. Piero Joplin despises him, and for good reason, too. Anton played a large part in expelling him from the Academy of Natural Philosophy, when some people became uncomfortable with the odd nature of Joplin’s experiments. Anton knew it was the Void’s influence, and it was petty jealousy that compelled him to agree to the expulsion of their youngest ever graduate. Just one fewer rival, he’d thought back then, when he was still a newly appointed Head and felt more insecure in his role than he’ll ever admit.

Joplin is here, he knows that much. Corvo’s gruesome mask has that same air of the Void about it, and Joplin’s hand is clear in the wiring, the metalwork. And of course he’s here. Anton isn’t stupid enough to believe in coincidences, not anymore.

“Fine,” he grumbles, much in the same way he always grumbled at Jessamine when she convinced him to do something he’s not that keen on doing. “I’ll talk to Joplin. For you, Jessamine. But I make no promises.”

“You never do,” the Heart says, and it’s odd to hear a smile in her voice, when she no longer has lips to smile with. “But you will find a way all the same, I am certain. You always have.”

“My ways usually involve a bottle of liquor and poor judgement,” Anton says wryly. “I rather doubt those will serve me in this case.”

“I would not be so sure,” she hums.

Anton barks a laugh despite himself. “Even now you’re intent on getting me into trouble, aren’t you?”

“We all have our burdens to bear.”

Her tone lacks the mischief it would otherwise have been laced with, and Anton sighs. “You more than most, Jessamine.”

“Perhaps so,” she agrees, “but they are burdens I bear gladly, with the last of my essence. I am glad I was allowed to speak with you again, if only just this one final time.”

“So am I,” Anton murmurs, cupping his hands around the Heart in a poor imitation of an embrace. He hates to see what she’s become, hates that she’s trapped here in this form, hates that she’s not at peace as she deserves. But he has always been a selfish man, and he will grasp whatever time with her he’s allowed to take.

“So am I.”

* * *

When Corvo comes to collect the Heart some hours later, Anton doesn’t even hear him come in. He’s sitting on the floor with his back against the bars of his cage, his arms curled protectively around the Heart. He only realises Corvo is there when he reaches through the bars and lays a hand on Anton’s shoulder.

“Outsider’s eyes, Corvo!” Anton snaps when he realises who’s come in. “Warn a man before you give him a heart attack, would you? Any more years off my life expectancy and I’ll drop dead where I stand.”

Corvo at least has the grace to look apologetic. “I need her back now, Anton.”

“Of course,” Anton mutters as he gets to his feet. “She should be at the grand ball, not in a dog kennel.”

“I think she’d rather stay here,” Corvo says as he plucks the Heart from Anton’s outstretched hand, gently tucking her back into his coat. “You know how much she hated all those parties the nobility host to one-up each other in opulence.”

“She’s not the only one,” Anton snorts. “Thank Void I’ve been getting fewer and fewer invitations to those things over the years.”

He’d coveted the invitations, once upon a time. Back when he was still young and revelling in his fame, getting one of those perfumed envelopes felt like a victory. People from Pradym didn’t attend balls like these. None but Anton. The parties made him feel special, wanted, _seen_. At first, anyway.

Then it became a tedious affair of nobles asking him to paint their portrait, and getting flat-out drunk only served to make him more interesting to the aristocracy, like he was some zoo animal to observe. So Anton spent a good party season staying stone-cold sober and discussing the driest possible literature at every social gathering. That dialled down the number of invitations right quick.

But Jessamine was the Empress, and she rarely had the choice to decline an invitation from a noble lord. And even in death, it seems she still doesn’t have that choice.

“You were invited this time,” Corvo points out.

“And I’m ecstatic to spend my night in a dog kennel instead,” Anton drawls. He’s not even joking. At least here he can have some peace and quiet. “Do me a favour, though, would you?”

Corvo smiles. “A book or a bottle?”

“Both,” Anton says immediately. “But no, that’s not what I meant.”

“Name it,” Corvo says easily.

“Tell Piero Joplin to come see me,” Anton makes his request, because he promised Jessamine he would try. “I need to talk to him.”

Understandably, Corvo hesitates. “Are you sure? Piero… doesn’t like you very much, Anton.”

Anton snorts at the blatant understatement. “He detests me, you mean,” he says, waving away Corvo’s concern. “But I need to talk to him regardless.”

“Alright,” Corvo says slowly, still some trepidation in his tone. “I’ll ask him. I can’t promise he’ll show up, though.”

“I can,” Anton says. Joplin might weigh the options for a while, leave Anton to stew here, but in the end, he’ll come. “A natural philosopher’s curiosity is not a beast easily tamed, and a summons from me is sure to pique that curiosity. He won’t be able to resist.”

Corvo gives him an uncertain smile. “If you say so, Anton. But please don’t try to murder each other while I’m gone. That’ll be a hard one to explain to the Admiral.”

“Anything is hard to explain to a half-wit.”

“Anton,” Corvo just sighs, exasperated.

“Fine, I’ll try not to murder anyone. Though Outsider knows it’s not me you need to be worried about in this situation. I’m not the one with the grudge.”

“Try to dissuade Piero from murder, then,” Corvo chuckles as he turns away. “I’ll do what I can before I leave, Anton.”

“Good luck. And Corvo?” he calls at Corvo’s retreating back. “Be damned careful. She’d never forgive you if you got yourself killed.”

Corvo looks back, and grins. “It’s not me you have to worry about in this situation,” he throws Anton’s words right back at him. “But thank you for the sentiment, Anton. I’ll be back on the morrow.”

Anton doesn’t doubt that. There are few things more awe-inspiring than Corvo Attano with a clear goal in mind. Burrows won’t stand a chance against him.

* * *

It takes two hours for Joplin to give in to his curiosity.

He steps up to the bars, peering down at Anton over those ridiculous spectacles of his. “You wished to speak with me?”

‘Wished’ is an overstatement, but Anton bites back that retort. “I did.”

He doesn’t get up from where he’s sitting, lets Joplin have the high ground, for now – and Joplin takes it gladly, drawing himself up to his full height. “Why?”

He’s being civil, at least. Anton can work with that. “I want to discuss your plague elixir.”

Joplin raises an eyebrow at him. “Will you finally admit you stole my formula?”

“I didn’t damn well steal –” Anton begins heatedly, then cuts himself off. Arguing will get them nowhere, and he promised Jessamine he would try. “Neither of us have cured the plague, Joplin.”

“Yet,” Joplin counters stubbornly.

“Yet,” Anton agrees. “And I’m sure one of us will succeed if we keep mucking around with different formulae long enough. But how long will that take? How many lives will be lost?”

“What are you getting at, Sokolov?”

Now Anton gets to his feet, grips the bars of his cell and stares Joplin down. “You and I are the only ones who managed to create an elixir that keeps the plague at bay,” he says. “Perhaps, if we were to compare notes –”

“Aha!” Joplin exclaims, pointing at him with an insufferably gleeful expression on his face. “So that is what prompted this. You want me to hand over my research so you can take the credit for the discovery of the cure yourself!”

“No, you blithering idiot!” Anton snaps. “What I’m proposing is a _partnership_ , though Outsider only knows why I’d want to subject myself to such a nightmare!”

Joplin narrows his eyes in suspicion. “A partnership?” he repeats, sounding as though the word is utterly foreign on his tongue.

“Yes,” Anton sighs. “That’s what it’s called when two people decide to work towards a common goal, Joplin.”

“I know that!” Joplin says, voice shrill with indignation. “I’m just wondering why you would think I’d ever be _partners_ with the likes of _you_!”

“Because people are dying!” Anton all but bellows. “People are dying, and every day we spend on this needless dick-measuring contest of ours, more people die. The plague _needs_ a cure, and it needs one _yesterday_.”

Joplin falters. “I didn’t think you cared about anyone other than yourself,” he snips, but there is little venom left in his voice. “Although, I suppose it falls to me to be the bigger man and accept the hand you’re surprisingly extending.”

Anton has to make a tremendous effort to swallow a petty comment on Joplin never being able to be the bigger man, with his small stature. “I suppose it does,” he says instead, shrugging. “Unless you would like to leave the job of finding a cure to the likes of Galvani.”

Joplin makes a face, and Anton laughs. The sound seems to catch Joplin off guard, and he pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, very clearly fighting a smile. “I speculate this city’s population will perish long before Luigi Galvani even gets close to creating a vaccine.”

“A fair hypothesis, though one I would rather not put to the test,” Anton says. He fits his arm through the bars, proffering his hand to Joplin. “So, partners?”

Joplin hesitates for a long moment, but eventually puts his hand in Anton’s, carefully at first, then gripping more tightly. “Partners.”

Jessamine had damn well better appreciate this.

* * *

He is released from his kennel the very next day.

The Admiral clearly isn’t pleased about it, and Anton is sure to grin at him as he saunters past on his way to Piero’s workshop, taking vindictive pleasure in the way he swells up like a blowfish. Men like Havelock are dangerous when they’re denied the power they believe they are due, but Anton has dealt with enough of his kind to know when to tread lightly and when not to bother. And right now, with the plague running rampant and the city of Dunwall on the brink, Anton is not much inclined to walk on eggshells. You can’t make an omelette without cracking a few eggs, after all.

Sorting out their notes takes most of the first day. Anton learns that Piero is absolutely dreadful at keeping his notes in order; he gets so caught up in his own head that he just grabs whatever piece of paper is closest to jot down his thoughts before they vanish again. Anton, in contrast, makes his notes in journals that he organises by subject and by date – but he only has access to his latest notes on the plague, because that particular notebook had been tucked inside his jacket the day Corvo came to carry him off. Everything else is still lining the bookshelves of his home on Kaldwin’s Bridge.

Still, Anton could recite the ingredients for his elixir in his sleep by now, and comparing his formula with Piero’s sheds a light on what they’ve both been missing thus far. Piero forewent the homeopathic solution because he didn’t have access to enough test subjects, and Anton finds he’s dismissed the potential of river krust shells too quickly. If they combine their approaches, perhaps add an essence of river krust pearls, too… Well, the cure to the plague might be closer than either of them could have expected.

“I must say, it’s refreshing to converse with someone on my own level,” Piero says as he digs through a stack of books to unearth the one they need. “The others try, but they simply do not understand the intricacies of the natural sciences.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Anton has to admit. It’s almost funny, how quickly he’s come around to Piero. The man has a strange mind, certainly, but then Anton’s own is strange as well, and they fit together almost perfectly. “Your expulsion from the Academy was a crime against natural philosophy itself.”

“Which you might have pointed out at the time,” Piero can’t help but mutter as he straightens, book in hand. “But it’s pointless to hold a grudge.”

“Still, I should have protested when the council met to discuss your fate,” Anton argues, because he really should have. It was petty jealousy that drove him to signing that order of expulsion, nothing more and nothing less. “Grudges are pointless, as are apologies – but I can assure you, when we find the cure, I’ll see to it personally that the injustice is rectified. With such an accomplishment to your name, it won’t be hard to convince the council to overturn the erroneous decision we made.”

That proclamation is met only with silence, and Anton raises an eyebrow at the papers he’s sorting through. It’s not as though he expected Piero to fall to his knees in gratitude, but a ‘thank you’ wouldn’t go amiss. “Not good enough?” he grumbles as he turns around, admittedly a little peeved. “Would you like me to grovel, Your Highness? Did my dignity not suffer enough in that ken-?”

But he doesn’t get any further than that, because –

Because Piero is _hugging_ him.

People don’t hug him. People admire him and ask him to paint portraits and listen to his dirty stories out of fascination, but they don’t damn well _hug_ him. No one does that except for…

Jessamine.

But Jessamine is _gone_ , lost to the world forever, and her very last request to him was to go and talk to Piero Joplin.

She always did know exactly what to do.

Anton returns the hug, perhaps a bit awkwardly – learning how two bodies fit together is an exercise not managed in a single embrace. But there is something oddly gratifying about the contact, in its own inelegant way. If Anton was a more poetically inclined soul, he might have said that this is exactly where he is supposed to be.

But he’s far from a poet, and the situation is far from ideal – not in the least because this is the moment someone clears their throat from the backdoor to the workshop, the mere sound of it already dripping with amusement.

Piero stiffens, jerking back, but Anton has been caught in much more compromising positions, so he merely turns around to regard the unwanted visitor, a woman looking more prim than anyone should at this pub. “Can we help you, madam?”

The woman raises a single eyebrow, a half-smile on her lips. “It’s time for Emily’s lessons, Professor Sokolov,” she says. Her voice is as prim as the rest of her. “Your teaching her was one of the conditions for releasing you from the kennels, did the Admiral not mention that?”

Anton mirrors her expression. “He did not.”

“Ms. Curnow is correct,” Piero offers from behind Anton. He’s polishing his glasses, back turned to them. “I put in my request for your release with the Admiral, but… well, Ms. Curnow is much more persuasive than I could ever hope to be.”

Anton doesn’t doubt that. “Curnow, is it? Any relation to the Watch Captain, by any chance?”

“My uncle,” Ms. Curnow says crisply. “But if we could save the pleasantries for later? I would like to adhere to Emily’s schedule as strictly as circumstances allow.”

Definitely a Curnow. Sticklers for the rules, the lot of them. “Of course,” Anton concedes. It’s not like he has much of a choice. He might have woken up in worse places than the kennels of the Hound Pits, but that doesn’t mean he’s eager to go back there. “Lead the way, madam.”

Anton leaves Piero alone to sort through the mess of papers, and likely also his jumbled thoughts, and he follows Ms. Curnow out the backdoor, heading for the tower-like structure that stands just beside the workshop.

“I must ask,” he says when they’re climbing the stairs, “why, exactly, did you request I teach young Emily the intricacies of natural philosophy? You have a perfectly capable resident philosopher.”

“Perfectly capable he may be,” Ms Curnow repeats, lips pursed in a manner that lets Anton know she doesn’t quite agree with her own words, “but Master Piero is not fit to teach children. Or at least, not this particular child.”

“Do elaborate.”

Ms. Curnow sighs. “As you’ve surely been told, Corvo found Emily in a room above the Golden Cat,” she says, her voice laced with distaste. “Apparently she had her run of the place, and she found a few… devices, that have Master Piero’s name attached to them.”

Anton cannot contain a snort of laughter. “She asked about them, I reckon?”

Of course she did. This is Jessamine’s daughter they’re talking about.

“She did,” Ms. Curnow says, in a tone that dissuades further discussion. “Rest assured, I will not be leaving Master Piero and my charge alone in the same room ever again.”

“A man after my own heart, that Piero,” Anton chuckles.

She smiles, more mischievously than he would have thought her capable of. “Yes, that much was quite apparent.”

And Anton has no retort to that, because Ms. Curnow opens the door to the chamber at the top of the tower, and then he’s being hugged for the second time today.

“Anton!” Emily – young Emily, the little Empress, _Jessamine’s daughter_ – exclaims jubilantly from somewhere down around his sternum. “You’re really here!”

Anton lays a steadying hand atop her head, smiling despite himself. Void, she looks more like Jessamine every day. “Where else would I be, you little troublemaker?”

Emily peers up at him with shrewd eyes. “Admiral Havelock said you were working for the Spymaster.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything Havelock says,” Anton snorts. He really doesn’t care much for the Admiral. “But he was right, in this case. The Lord Regent had no intention of letting me quit, not when he was so desperate for a cure to the plague. But Corvo was kind enough to spring me from that particular prison.”

“Corvo is the best,” Emily proclaims with a certainty only children have when they name their father the greatest dad in the universe. “He saved me, too.”

“So I heard,” he says fondly. “And now we’re both stuck in a wholly different kind of prison.” When Emily’s brow furrows in confusion, he leans down conspiratorially and grins. “Lessons.”

She laughs, delighted, and Anton can’t even express how grateful he is that she’s still the same little girl he knew and grew to love despite himself. Surely there are scars from the ordeal she’s been subjected to, but they will not define her. Emily Kaldwin is her mother’s daughter, after all – and her father’s, too. If nothing else, that combination of genes has made her much too stubborn to allow herself to be dragged down by something as banal as trauma.

He hopes so, at least.

“These lessons are about whales,” Emily says, “so they’re not so bad.”

“Not so bad? Lessons?” Anton feigns surprise, dramatically clutching at his chest. “Who are you, and what have you done with Lady Emily?”

The girl giggles at his antics, but she still produces a book on cetacean anatomy and expects to be taught, like the proper Empress she is. So Anton sits on one of the beds, across from Emily, and teaches her as best he can.

He’s rusty, he has to admit; it’s been years since he actually stood in front of a classroom at the Academy, his duties as Head combined with his responsibilities as Royal Physician affording him no time to impart his knowledge on others. But it’s easy, to get back into it. Emily is a clever child, and she truly is remarkably like Jessamine; she learns best when he spins the material into a story, hangs onto his every word then. But try to throw dry facts at her, and she’ll tune out faster than a heretic at an Abbey sermon.

So Anton tells stories, about the whales and the whaling ships he designed, and about the oil they harvest from the beasts. Ms. Curnow hovers, listening almost as intently as Emily, and Anton is sure to throw in an innuendo or two every so often just to watch a blush creep up her neck. It’s rather amusing, really.

They wrap up the lesson around dinnertime. “Thank you, Professor Sokolov,” Ms. Curnow says, only a tad stiffly. “That was very… educational.”

“I’ve been graced with an exceptional student,” Anton says, winking at Emily. “No greater joy, and all that. She’ll make a fine Empress.”

And that, that he means, wholeheartedly. Of course he wishes she wouldn’t _have_ to be the Empress, not so young, not when Jessamine should still be here to wear that mantle. But Emily Kaldwin is her mother’s daughter in much more than name alone, and if anyone has to lead this Empire, it would be her. As long as she chooses her advisors wisely, and heeds their council when she should, the Empire may just be alright.

And perhaps it’s unfair, to expect so much of a child. But she is a piece of Jessamine, and Anton cannot help but cling to that.

He is a selfish man, after all.

* * *

They say a drunk mind speaks a sober heart.

Anton has never put much stock in that saying. Perhaps it’s because he always speaks a sober heart – or perhaps it’s because his mind is drunk more often than not. Both bluntness and drink are necessary evils when one has to deal with Dunwall’s aristocracy as much as Anton has to.

Piero, however, is a different story.

It’s been just over a week since they began their peculiar partnership, and Anton likes to think he’s come to know Piero rather well in that time. Piero like his tea weak, without sugar or milk; he likes to record himself on audiographs when he can because his handwriting is atrocious; he likes puzzles, and the rain, and the scent of whale oil. He does not like loud noises, or coffee, or hounds. He only ever sleeps with a single blanket. He keeps kingsparrow feathers on his windowsill because he fancies the way they look, not because they serve a purpose.

But these are all things Anton has learned by merely observing. Piero doesn’t talk much about himself, tries to keep his cards close to his chest – out of a lingering sense of distrust, Anton suspects, and he can’t fault him for that.

But tonight, with the assistance of some good alcohol, Piero is showing his hand.

Anton is certain he can’t have had more than three fingers of whiskey – he’s hardly wavered from Piero’s side all evening, both because he’s the only person in the bar with whom he can discuss important topics like crustacean vivisection, and because it’s rather amusing to watch Piero go from stone-cold sober to completely sloshed in the span of an hour. He clearly cannot hold his liquor, and the unrestrained truths he blurts out are an endless source of entertainment.

“Galvani’s a hack,” he hiccups, wagging his finger at Anton as though he’s daring him to disagree. “What self-respecting doctor would sever the spine before viv- vivi- cutting! The results are all skewered!”

He spits the word ‘skewered’, and Anton laughs, swirling his own drink – his fifth, but who’s counting – idly in his hand. “Tell me something I don’t know, Piero.”

Piero seems to consider that for a moment, peering at Anton through those small round glasses of his, brow furrowed in thought. And Anton is not at all prepared for the words that leave Piero’s mouth next. “Your eyes are beautiful.”

Anton gapes at him, and Piero’s lips curl into a lopsided grin that has absolutely no business being that attractive. “See?” Piero says triumphantly. “I can tell you plenty of things you don’t know.”

He can. He’s probably the only person in all the Isles who still has that ability.

Anton knocks back his drink, suddenly very desperate for another. Voiddammit, Jessamine really wasn’t joking when she told him his usual ways of alcohol and bad judgment might just serve him well with Piero.

On second thought, maybe he _shouldn’t_ get another drink. Void knows he needs his inhibitions right now, lest he make a mistake he won’t be able to take back.

He fetches water instead, both for himself and for Piero. It’s likely his intoxication won’t last long, not with that little actual alcohol in his system, but Anton knows from experience that not drinking enough water makes the inevitable sobering headache all that much worse. And while he’s sure it would be amusing to watch Piero grouch in the wake of a hangover, Anton needs that mind of his to help find a cure to the plague. They’re too close to falter now.

The party is winding down in any case. Corvo went up to the attic half an hour ago, not long after Ms. Curnow brought Emily to bed. The celebration was for _his_ accomplishments, _his_ victory, but he was naturally exhausted after exposing Burrows’ treachery to all the world. No one blamed him when he retired with a muttered apology, looking like he was ready to collapse right then and there.

When Anton returns to the booth he and Piero have commandeered for the evening, he finds Piero dozing off, his chin resting on his hand. “None of that,” he says sternly, shaking Piero’s shoulder. “You can sleep after you’ve drank some water.”

Piero startles awake. “What do _you_ know?” he snaps, the effect of it undermined rather severely by the way his speech is slurred.

“About drinking? A whole lot more than you.”

Piero raises a single finger, mouth open to retort – and then he stops, his hand lowering slowly. “That… might be accurate.”

Anton chuckles. “Come on,” he says, offering Piero his hand, the two bottles of water tucked securely under his other arm. “We’ll get you back to the workshop first, then you can drink the damn water and sleep it off.”

“Yes, mother,” Piero snips, but he doesn’t argue, letting Anton pull him up.

He’s thankfully not too unsteady on his feet, and it’s not difficult to lead him out of the nearly empty bar and down to his workshop. Getting him up the stairs is a bit more challenging, but Anton manages, and he leaves Piero sitting on his bed, a bottle of water in hand, while he goes to lock up.

When Anton comes back upstairs, he’s pleased to see that Piero has made it through half the bottle of water. “Better, isn’t it? I told you I’m knowledgeable about my liquor.”

“You’re knowledgeable about many things,” Piero says, the word ‘knowledgeable’ barely making it off his tongue. “You know more than I do about crustaceans. But _not_ cetaceans.”

He says it as austerely as he can in his inebriated state, and Anton cannot contain his laugh. Piero really is an honest drunk. “What about your elixir?” he has to ask, just to see how much information Piero is willing to volunteer. “Did you really not name that yourself?”

“No, I did,” Piero confesses with absolute ease. “Yours was named for you. I wanted mine to be named for me. So no one would confuse my elixir for _yours_.”

There is a hint of old scorn in his voice, and Anton chuckles. He should have known Piero damn well named that elixir of his after himself personally.

And he really ought to stop here, not take advantage of the trust Piero has granted him through alcohol, but there is one thing he would like to know. One thing he _needs_ to know. “Piero, have you ever… made a heart beat again outside of its thoracic cavity?”

Piero cocks his head. “You went through my notes?”

“What notes?”

“About my dream,” Piero says. His eyes look enormous behind his glasses when he looks at Anton, and his voice is much clearer than it was before. “I dream of the Void, almost every night. In one of them I stitched together a heart, made it beat again through natural philosophy, and… something else. I trapped something in it. _Someone_.”

Anton sinks down next to him on the bed, unable to stay upright. He knows his eyes must be as round as Piero’s own. “Who?” he asks, even though he knows the answer. He knows exactly who is contained in that Heart, but he wants to hear Piero say it. “Whose spirit did you trap?”

But Piero shakes his head. “I don’t know. I theorise that part of the spirit lives in the heart – that’s why restarting it by force would keep that part of the spirit trapped in this realm.” He shrugs, clearly not as concerned about the situation as Anton is. “But it was merely a dream. I have ideas I can carry over to the physical realm, on occasion, but this vision vanished when I woke. So my notes are little more than a hypothesis, I’m afraid.”

Except that hypothesis has already been proven correct, Anton knows perfectly well.

But it’s oddly relieving, to know Piero did not cage Jessamine’s spirit in her own Heart out of mere curiosity, or ill intentions. Not that Anton hasn’t done worse things himself, if he’s honest, and out of selfish reasons at that, but he’s never harmed Jessamine. And Jessamine has always been different.

“Go to sleep, Piero,” Anton orders, making to stand. “You’ll have a headache in the mor-”

He stops short when there is a hand on his thigh, undeniably suggestive, and his head snaps up to find Piero much closer than before, his eyes still wide and unfocused, a vague blush colouring his cheeks. “It’s still early.”

He’s not wrong, theoretically. And under different circumstances, Anton wouldn’t even hesitate. But this is not a woman he’s picking up at a random bar, or a noble who’s trying to seduce him for his favour at a party. This is _Piero_.

“It’s late,” he argues, taking Piero’s hand and carefully moving it away. “Tomorrow, if you want this when you’re sober, I’ll more than happily oblige. But not tonight.”

Piero frowns, but nods – then winces when the movement clearly makes him dizzy, and Anton smiles.

He stands, daring to press a careful kiss to Piero’s forehead. “Go to sleep,” Anton says, and then he heads downstairs to sleep, alone, on the cot that’s been set up for him in the workshop.

He does not regret his choice.

He does, however, regret the explosion that wakes him the next morning, the sound of it seeming to reverberate endlessly in his skull.

They’ve been betrayed.

* * *

Corvo saves them, of course. Anton honestly didn’t expect anything less of him.

He saves Emily, too, from the clutches of the ill-named Loyalists who turned on him the moment it was convenient for them, the moment they got too close to _real_ power. Havelock is in Coldridge, currently, awaiting his trial and his likely execution; Martin and Pendleton are dead. Anton can’t say he’ll mourn them.

Everything has been a whirlwind of activity since Corvo brought forth the true Empress and had his name cleared of all wrongdoings. Anton and Piero spend most of their days in the Royal Physician’s lab at the Tower – and their nights in the Royal Physician’s quarters, sharing the bed Anton never made much use of before, usually preferring to retire to his house at Kaldwin’s Bridge.

But there is no time for that, not when the plague needs a cure so desperately, and the warm body curled up against his own every night more than makes up for missing his home. If he’s honest with himself, he would say he’s never been truly home until he found himself in Piero’s arms, but then again, he really is not a poetic soul.

It takes them about a fortnight of rigorous work and preciously little sleep to perfect their formula and create the cure. It takes at least another month before the overwhelming number of patients they need to see dwindles, until finally, busy days are few and far in between as the City Watch rounds up the last infected citizens.

On one of the new, oddly quiet days, Corvo comes to find him.

“Anton.”

“Corvo.”

Corvo steps up to stand next to him on the balcony of his quarters, looking down at the city sprawling below. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, until –

“I let her go.”

Anton doesn’t need to ask which ‘her’ he’s referring to. “Good,” he says, even as he can feel a lump form in his throat. “She deserves that.”

She does deserve it. Jessamine has earned her peace. But it doesn’t mean that Anton does not lament the loss of the last of her essence, cruel as it was to keep her trapped in this world. He is a selfish man, and he doesn’t know if he would have had the strength Corvo displayed in letting her go.

“I dropped her off the top of the lighthouse,” Corvo whispers. It’s clearly weighing heavily on him, and Anton is the only person he can talk to about Jessamine. About the shadow of herself she’d become, caged within the confines of her own heart. “She said it was alright. She said she’d _be_ alright, but I…”

“If that’s what she told you, then that was the truth,” Anton says, with absolute certainty. Jessamine’s Heart knew things it could not possibly have known, and he’s never known Jessamine to lie to Corvo, either in life or in not-quite-death. “Have some faith in her.”

“I do,” Corvo says immediately, a hint of indignation in his tone. But that spark is gone as quickly as it came, and he just sighs. “I miss her, Anton. I miss her so much.”

“I know,” Anton says, because he does. He does not reach for Corvo, does not lay a comforting hand on his arm or something equally sentimental that a more emotionally competent person might do. But his words make up for it. “I do, too.”

They remain side by side for what feels like a long time, comforted by the fact that the other knows exactly what they are missing. Corvo is eventually called away for official business, and then Anton alone remains, staring down at the seemingly endless ocean glittering in the sunlight below.

That evening, Anton heads down to the docks, and he tosses a single orchid, coloured a rich purple Jessamine would have loved, into the roiling waves of the sea. He watches it until finally it’s swallowed up by the water, claimed by the tides. _Gone_.

And only then is he at peace.


End file.
